


spring comes with meltwater showers

by Anonymous



Category: Wanna One (Band)
Genre: Family Drama, M/M, a LOT of eating, also blankets, also drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-18 00:59:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13089114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: jihoon takes a trip down to Busan to reconnect with his estranged father but ends up meeting more old ghosts in the process.





	spring comes with meltwater showers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slackeuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slackeuse/gifts).



His story is this-

Jihoon, along with Daehwi and Jinyoung, have decided to go on a so-called ‘friendship’-trip of sorts to celebrate what is likely their last winter together as a full trio. Daehwi’s probably going to take a semester abroad in the States next fall (he’s not, he’s already told Jihoon and Jinyoung he’s staying here), so it’s the perfect opportunity. Never mind that Daehwi’s mother is actually visiting him this Christmas, or that Jinyoung is staying home with his own family.

Jihoon tosses his gloves into the trash can and shuts the lights of the lab off. Sunset peeks through the cracks in the closed blinds. It would have been nicer if he left earlier. He wipes off the caked white powder on his hands onto his pants. White smudges on grey flannel. He brings a hand up to his nose and yeah- smells like latex. Oh well. He sends a quick _thanks guys, remember the plans_ to their shared group chat. Daehwi types something but erases it. Jinyoung replies with a thumbs up.

The wind blows through the holes in his scarf when he walks to his car. It’s too cold for barely the start of winter. He shivers. His eyes flicker to the black and grey backpack sitting in the backseat, filled to the brim, when he pulls the door open. He tosses his half eaten sandwich from lunch in the passenger seat and puts the freshly bought coffee (medium, light roast and a touch too hot) in the cup holder.

He finishes warming up his car and begins his journey to Busan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When he gets home, Woojin looks through the mail in the box on their front door. He start rifling through the stack of papers in the box. His hand reaches the back of the pile. Nothing for him today, either. Letters from Hyeongseop come fewer and farther in between nowadays. He slams the box shut, the hinge rattling on the screw. It’s badly rusted. He’ll have to fix that soon. He turns the key.

He’d greet the house with a loud “I’m home,” but he sees his mom lying fast asleep on the couch, so he tries to wordlessly move into his room. The squeak of his bedroom door, even though it’s soft, makes her shift. Woojin tosses his stuff in a heap in the corner. Carelessly dropping the handful of brochures on his bedside table, he seals himself in.

He spares a glance at the yellowing letters on his desk, the responses that he’ll hold out on sending. J _ust until_ next time, he says. But _next time_ keeps getting delayed by _tomorrows_.

He lies on the bed and checks his phone for the first time since his shift back from work. He sees a text from his father saying ‘ _late night’_.

Hours at the night market just keep getting longer, don’t they? He turns away from his phone. It’s a relief.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Woojin. You’re home early. Why didn’t you wake me up?” she asks, eyeing the stack of papers on your bedside table. “Any important mail?”

His mom is always light steps and even lighter sounds, like she’s always wary of making too much noise. It’s sometimes unnerving.

“Aunt Yoomi sent us a Christmas card. She invited us, too,” he starts, knowing already how this will play out.

She looks away from the dark blue card on his bedside drawer, instead settling on the stack of magazines off to the side. “Is that all the mail for today? Nothing for the city’s events? I’ve been waiting for those, but they haven’t even arrived yet,” she says. “Since your dad won’t be in till later, we should have an early dinner. Do you want anything in particular to eat?”

Woojin looks away, his stomach constricting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“-two kilometres.”

Jihoon exhales grudgingly, fingers drumming on the wheel. Not even halfway across his journey and he finds himself wanting to pull to the side of the road and take an extended nap. The sun is almost on the horizon. He’d departed too late.

The drive along highway one, route to Busan is no less miserable than trying to navigate his way out of the Seoul stoplights. The highway’s surprisingly dead for this time of the hour, this time of the year, probably because no one wants to drive thick through a coming blizzard. Jihoon prays that he’ll miss it by some miracle, but judging by the way the snow falls more heavily the further he drives, he’ll have no such luck.

The weather is absolutely miserable. Dirty slush lines the asphalt of the road, clear only where other cars have driven over it before. But there’s no one. Just Jihoon and the dark and the snow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jihoon gets the wind choked out of him. His seatbelt rams against his ribs. The side of his door is dead stuck- half of his windshield is covered with a hard packed mixture of ice and snow. Jihoon’s hands have a death grip on the wheel.

The radio switches to an excessively cheery chime-filled kid’s Christmas song and he nearly laughs. A fitting end to a fitting week.

He leans back into the driver’s seat and buries his face in his hands, exhaling deeply and dragging his fingers up through the messy locks. The pangs of hunger hit at his stomach. He leers at the half-eaten sandwich on the passenger seat.

The road ahead curves along a mountain’s cliff edge.

He presses the power button of his phone. No reception.

He tries to remember how far back the nearest rest area had been, but all he can remember from the past- no, five?- minutes is a vague snapshot of a house with a beat up beige sedan parked out at the front and dim lighting shining out from the inside.

He wraps his scarf tighter around his neck and walks back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Woojin is woken up to a dark sky and the sound of his dad yelling his name to come to the front door. Disoriented, he takes his earphones off and shucks his now-dead phone off to the side. The metal threads through the broken insulation scratch his fingers.

He stumbles his way to the front door, doing his best to avoid glaring at his father as he walks past. His father all but ignores him and goes straight to their bedroom instead. The room is still dark.

The first thing Woojin notices are the snowflakes clinging to his hair, tufts dyed a brown-orange and sticking out in odd angles underneath a startlingly neon knit hat. He shivers into his scarf, tongue coming out to lick at his extremely chapped lips. He looks different, older now, and there’s light exhaustion shading his face. But the slight brightness in his eyes is the same as Woojin remembers.

 

Jihoon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jihoon steps inside the house. Shoes litter the front. The tiles are impeccably clean and his boots feel out of place here, dirty slush caked around the soles. He closes the door behind him, loosening his scarf.

The wall on the right side of the hallway has a faded magenta stain that someone’s obviously tried to scrub off. It shouldn’t matter, but something drags his eyes back towards it. The smell of autumn and spices swims thickly through the air, contrasting to the snow outside. Bright, flickering Christmas lights and star-shaped paper lanterns hang on the walls.

“Woojin!” The man who opened the door yells.

Woojin.

Jihoon’s eyes flit away from the wall. Warm summer days and fireflies come rushing back.

He remembers the way Christmas decorations were on the walls year-round, remembers the smell of vanilla and spices and home that was always permeating through the air.

The stripe on the wall is familiar, because that was _his_ fault.

This is Woojin’s house.

Their eyes meet when Woojin turns around the corner. Jihoon would like to say that they started right where they had left off years ago, but his breath doesn’t hitch like it used to.

He catches a glimpse of recognition in Woojin’s eyes, though, catches the way the sparks light. It makes him feel like he’s in the wrong, and maybe he is. They haven’t talked in a while. Woojin’s always been the one that remembers. Jihoon, on the other hand, is the one that always forgets.

Jihoon tries to manage a small smile at him as he approaches. An unspoken _you_ hangs between the two of them. He still feels like memories.

 _We haven’t met in a while. How are you_?

He wants to ask Woojin so many things.

Jihoon remembers him anxiously. When he comes closer, the lights fill against the shadows of his face. He reminds Jihoon of birthday candles, the smell of chocolate and cream, the hopeful promises of eternal friendship they’d sworn to when they linked their fingers at the run down path by the old park.

But Jihoon also remembers his first regret, their first kiss right before Jihoon moved away, hidden behind the walls of his old house while his mom was just around the corner, packing away the last remnants of your their belongings from their old house. Jihoon wanted to admit that he _had_ wanted a something then, something more.

But he didn’t. Woojin’s hands were cold.

That was the last trace of himself he’d left in Busan that day. Jihoon wonder if Woojin remembers that, too. He tries to read Woojin’s expression, but he’s no longer able to read Woojin as well as he used to. What did Woojin think that day? Why did he respond the way he did? But it's been years. Jihoon’s moved on by now, hasn’t he? So has Woojin. Seven years is a long time. They've both been busy.

Jihoon smiles, but his gut still twists. He looks down.

But as always, Woojin is the one to defy his expectations, the one to begin to break away at the walls Jihoon likes to build around himself.

The familiar yet unfamiliar gravelly voice welcomes you warmly, edges rough yet warm and soothing.

“Welcome back to Busan, Jihoon-ah.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unburying the car doesn’t go very far. They do try. In retrospect, trying to remove snow in the middle of a blizzard wasn’t bound to work well. It’s gotten far deeper into the evening than Jihoon had anticipated. His head aches. He’s slightly numb, from fatigue or the cold or both, he can’t tell.

There’s a shift in Woojin’s mood when they enter the house again. Enthusiasm disappears as suddenly as it came when he realizes that no one’s around, replaced by something like relief.

Early the next morning, Jihoon places a few calls and bids Woojin goodbye. Short and simple, as it should be. Neither of them get to place too many words before Jihoon is gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jihoon meets his dad for the first time in seven years in a new fusion restaurant at the city centre.

Jihoon picks at the bean sprouts on the side of his plate. “I’m in university now,” he says. He skips the part where he says that he doesn’t know what he’s doing there, skips the part where he’s doing nothing but going through the motions. “Studying well. My grades are okay.”

“Seoul University, you mentioned that.” His dad beams. “What major are you studying now? Not psychology, I presume. You hated that class in high school.”

Did he? Jihoon’s surprised he noticed with how his father was barely in the house back then. Jihoon’s not sure if he’s projecting his own issues or if this entire conversation feels superficial. “Not psychology. But I’m still in the sciences.”

“You’re taking after your mother, then. How is she doing?”

Jihoon tenses, because what does his mother have to do with this? If his mother catches wind of him being here, what would she do?

Like always, he doesn’t know the answers to these questions (and does he ever, really), so instead he sips the bancha in the speckled cup to his right and says not much more beyond “good” before deflecting the topic.

Jihoon’s skill is in small talk and not much in observation. There’s not much else he picks up of note from the rest of the conversation, or maybe he’s just blocking it from his mind. All he knows is that, watching his dad, he’s moved on, unlike _him._ He has a family now, a wife with loose brown curls in her hair and a brightness to her that you can see even through photographs. She couldn’t be farther from Jihoon’s own mother. Her daughter is a splitting image of her. They have a black Labrador, gaze eager and gentle and it reminds him of the dog they used to have.

He’s not angry. It’s just that the entire conversation feels tinged with _it’s not your fault, Jihoon_. Of course it isn’t. He’s heard that from all the people around him. If you repeat something enough it becomes true, right? _It’s not your fault, Jihoon_. He can even say it with conviction to himself.

But he knows that’s not how facts work, and the feeling of lying to himself is one of the feelings Jihoon resents the most

The heavy feeling passing all through his body makes him glad he hadn’t had more than a mug of tea for dinner.

His father offers Jihoon to stay with his family afterwards. But it feels too intrusive and he’s out of place there, so Jihoon declines, bluffing his way through a short story about old friends and alternate plans.

He finds it a little hard to breathe afterwards.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Woojin’s phone number hasn’t changed through all these years, Jihoon learns, when he calls the old phone number saved in his phone and it’s a familiar voice that answers.

“Hey, it’s me.” Jihoon leans against the brick wall for support. “Are you free right now?” The cement and brick overlays are ragged against his skin. The dried black gum remains on the sidewalk underneath him blur together into a puddle before snapping back, clear defined black lines against light grey cement.

“You don’t sound okay-” his voice cuts into static and your throat feels _stuck_. You hear the faint ringing of a bell over the cell phone. The sound of a door clicking, and the deafening howl of wind. Woojin’s voice returns, clearer, louder.

“It could be worse.” Jihoon says. He closes his eyes waits for a response.

“Do you want me to meet you?” Woojin asks, and Jihoon wonders why he’s so accommodating, but he unconsciously finds himself nodding. Soothingly cold winter air flows into his lungs. Jihoon grips his phone tightly, blood flowing back into your fingertips, bringing a warmness.

 

 

 

Jihoon’s somewhat managed to collect himself by the time Woojin arrives.

Woojin jogs up to him, breath coming up in puffs of white steam, his boots making undefined imprints on the dirty slush of the sidewalk.

Jihoon steps away from the wall, managing a tired but thankful smile at him. “Hey.”

“You didn’t have to wait outside,” he says, tilting his head upwards towards the bright white advertisement board on the corner of the building. Jihoon sees Woojin try to put careful distance between the two of them, but Woojin unconsciously moves forwards ever so slightly regardless.

“I said I’d be out here, so here I am.” Jihoon turns towards Woojin. “I’m sorry for calling you wall the way back here. I’ve only realized just now, but I’ve been nothing but a pain in the ass since I’ve got here.” Jihoon bites on the inside of his cheek. “I’ll pay you back, I promise. Let me?” He asks.

Woojin looks at him like he knows something’s happened. But Jihoon is thankful when Woojin goes along with his words.

“It depends on what you mean. Repay me how? Nothing too extravagant. Right?”

“Only the best rewards for the best people. Bad company with the one and only.” Jihoon smiles, genuinely this time. “I mean it, I want to make it up to you. Do you want to eat out somewhere or something?”

Jihoon lets himself step forwards, reducing that weird personal space bubble that was in between the two of them. “Unless you’re busy. In which case, I’ll take you out tomorrow.”

When Jihoon notices how Woojin finally starts to relent at the mention of food, a laugh bubbles its way out of his throat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Do you know of any cheap places to camp out for a couple nights around here?” Jihoon asks right after dinner.

Woojin’s eyebrows raise. “You come all the way here to have no plans?”

“Plans are cancelled,” Jihoon says.

He winces. Even he knows that felt like an incomplete answer. Jihoon finds himself staring at the sleeves of his too-long knit jacket as Woojin studies his response. Jihoon’s afraid he’ll ask more. But he doesn’t.

Woojin pulls back from him. “Alright,” he says. “I mean, I’m sure you can find others around here, but there’s the old motel down the road. It’s still open, you know? It’s holding on.” Jihoon likes the way Woojin’s eyes light up and the hint of pride in his eyes.

“All things aside, how have you been,” Woojin asks. “We’ve barely had a chance to talk.” The weight of Woojin’s gaze is obvious, intent, scorching, and Jihoon doesn’t know what to make of it.

Jihoon doesn’t even get to open his mouth before Woojin cuts him off. “Yesterday barely counts.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Woojin laughs wholeheartedly, Jihoon realizes. His shoulders shake up and down with joy; he doesn’t bother to hide his smile behind his hand. A hearty chuckle comes out of his throat. Jihoon finds himself wanting to see it more often. Before Jihoon even notices it, he finds a familiar Busan boy starting to make a place for himself in his heart again. He’s not sure how to feel.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aside from the fact that he’s a lot more guarded than Jihoon’s used to, Woojin is a good distraction, Jihoon realizes. But there’s an unshakeable tenseness to the way he moves, regardless of how relaxed he is. Sometimes there’s a low playfulness in his eyes. Sometimes it’s curiosity. But occasionally it’s anger.

“Mind taking me on a tour tonight, for old times’ sakes?” Jihoon asks.

“That seems like a lot to cover. I’ll reconsider if you keep buying the food and drink, though,” Woojin grins, and Jihoon etches his smile into memory.

“I can keep paying you in good company.”

“In that case I’ll take all three types of payment,” Woojin jokes.

Jihoon swears that that playfulness shifts into something a little more lingering occasionally. He knows because his gut sinks low every time it happens. It’s weird, because-

Woojin _before_ would never do that. And _before_ is the only reason they’re sitting here, together, in Jihoon’s old favourite restaurant with the new staff, new management, new food. Everything’s changed so much he can’t even say that this is still what he considered ‘his favourite restaurant’. And maybe Woojin is different, too.

But in the end, even if this familiarity between them is misplaced, it makes him want to come back. And Jihoon doesn’t have enough self-control to keep himself from going back and indulging for a few moments. It’s been a long week.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The tour begins. True to his promises, Jihoon does buy food and drink in the form of a couple boxes of kancho cookies (their old mutual favorite) and a can of soy milk (for him) and banana milk (for Woojin). Woojin leaves him be to buy stuff as he warms up the car and when he’s done Jihoon joins along in the passenger seat of the old off-beige sedan.

 

Every place they stop at makes Jihoon feel more and more like a stranger. It almost feels like Woojin is touring him in all the wrong places. New glass office buildings are building up in the city center. New construction by the old bridge they plan to create a shopping centre over. That’s not _it_.

He asks about the things that _are_ important. Where’s the small restaurant that had the busted lights? The ginkgo tree along the side road that blossoms yellow leaves in the fall? The row of seafood stands? The ice cream shop beside them? It’s gone, Woojin says. You’re thinking of the wrong place. That never existed.

It’s frustrating, because even here, Jihoon is a stranger.

His legs grow more weary with each place they stop at. Jihoon wants to go home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What’s up with you?” Woojin says, the thirtieth time Jihoon spaces out into the distance and sighs whenever Woojin says a word.

“Not much.” Jihoon’s eyes drag awful slowly away from the orange glow of the clock at the top of the entrance building. “I’m just tired.” He looks back at the clock.

Of what? The tour? Him talking? It’s barely been an hour. Woojin looks at where Jihoon’s staring. Straight black on filtered orange. There’s nothing interesting about this clock. Woojin doesn’t understand.

Jihoon cracks open a can with white and green print on the front. Soy milk, it reads.

“You didn’t have to ask for a tour if it’s so uninteresting to you,” Woojin steps back and crosses his arms. “Why are you even back here? If you don’t want to be here, don’t come.”

Jihoon sharply turns his head towards him. “What?” He tenses. “Woojin, do you _really_ think I went back to Busan after seven years for _this_? Sorry, this isn’t that important to me.”

“Good fucking riddance,” Woojin mutters.

Jihoon stops listening. “Nice talking with you. Can you take me back to my car?” He says as casually as he can, hands still painfully clenched into fists. He stuffs them in his pocket.

Jihoon turns around and starts walking back to the car. It’s stupid, because it’s not his car and he doesn’t even have the keys and he’s walking ahead, faster.

It’s silent at first, but the echo of wooden panels and the jingling of the keys follows behind Jihoon not soon afterwards.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Woojin’s never liked kancho cookies. Always too much cracker and not enough chocolate and _too sweet_ chocolate. Two boxes, one half-eaten, lie in the plastic bag on his left.

He looks around. Barren. One person enters through the glass door on the side of the building. So, _almost_ barren. He presses one of the keys in front of him. It sounds like rattling tin and wood knocking on wood.

He presses another key and another. At first it sounds awful, because why the fuck would he expect it to sound good when it sounded like shit in the first place, but then he presses and holds and it actually sounds good even when it sounds like shit because it sounds like shit _together_. And music sounds better when it’s together.

God, what the hell is he doing?

He manages to wait until the clicking of the person’s heels disappears before he grabs a new packet of cookies from the paper box, ripping it open and stuffing the offensively mediocre contents into his mouth. He’s only five-sixths of the way through a pack right now.

Bitter gold is awful good at making things slightly more appealing. But he should shut the fuck up soon. It’s late and god forbid a conductor come up from the stairs in the middle of the room and flag him for public disturbance. He’s so nervous he’s sweating. It’s hot here. The scarf around his neck is even hotter.

He’s repulsed when he remembers that this isn’t his scarf at all, since when did he start wearing it, why did he start wearing it, why does it make him feel so angry? It’s not hot, it’s cold here in the middle of the big marble space. The single doors leading to the outside do a piss poor fucking job of keeping the temperature where it should be at and Woojin should be shivering because it’s so cold. But it doesn’t feel cold at all. Woojin is still shivering, but it feels like a sauna.

He pulls the scarf off and stuffs it into the plastic bag along with the leftover crumbs. The crumbs look like dust on the starry golden shimmer of the threads of the scarf. Gold and red threads form ornate patterns on the beige cloth.

Neon green knit and blizzards come to his mind and Woojin feels even more angry. He can’t place why. There’s just a random fucking scarf in this plastic bag and he doesn’t know _why_ this scarf reminds him of green knit and blizzards and being reminded of shit memories. He’s angry at it and he’s angry at himself and he’s angry at why he’s getting angry at in the first place. He grabs the bag to throw the plastic away into the trash can by the entrance and it only hits him when he stands up just how winded he is.

The fifty-meter trip to the corner is a long one. Too long. He stops halfway and sits down by the wall and presses his back against it. No one will notice if he stays. Nobody usually does.

He calls his sister to tell her good night. The dial tone doesn’t ring to seven, but she doesn’t say anything back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Work is a nightmare.

Woojin stands by the window, careful to stand at the intersection of light and dark. Too far a step right means it’s too bright, glare worsening his already rough vision, too far left means not enough warmth and uncontrollable shaking. His sweater’s not doing much. This scarf isn’t his, but it seems to be helping more than his old cotton sweater. Too full of holes on the inside lining. Trying to restock all of the merchandise this morning was trying, though the only things he had to stock was rolls of tape and a stack of small cardboard boxes.

He tries not to look outside. Woojin tells himself it’s because looking to the side hurts, leaves a lagging trail of colors when he turns.

He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed when he sees the figure outside the window disappear. He lets his shoulders relax, slack a little. But then he remembers that’s exactly what Aunt would tell him not to do. _It’s bad for your back_.

He stands up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jihoon comes back with two cups of coffee. Woojin glares at the cup, glares at Jihoon.

“How can I help you today?” The rehearsed speech comes out fluid.

Jihoon slides the coffee forward on the counter and looks away. “You know what I’m here for.”

“Yeah. You’re here to buy moving supplies, since that’s what we sell. It’s on the sign.” Woojin points at the white poster taped onto the window. He pushes the steaming cup back towards the other side of the counter. “As usual, prices are displayed on the items.” He points to a stack of threaded tape rolls. “If you need help-“ He almost hurls because this is too much talking for one minute. His throat constricts. It tastes like acid and cookies and more acid, like the results of a night of bad decisions. “Just tell me.”

“I know I was being a prick last night. I’m trying to apologize.” Jihoon tugs off his hat and runs a hand through the unkempt locks. “Sorry. Being back here is making me on edge. I don’t know why I said that. That wasn’t directed at you.” Jihoon looks at Woojin’s shirt that still has the stains from dinner, looks at the scarf around his neck, looks at Woojin’s hand on the counter. Woojin knows he’s resting all his weight on it. “Please. Take the coffee.”

He can’t even say he’s mad at how much of a non-apology this was, because he doesn’t know if it is. Woojin has never understood Jihoon, still doesn’t. Jihoon looks wearily at the lines probably under Woojin’s eyes and this could very well be a legitimate apology for all he knows. Woojin is still angry at Jihoon, because there’s something in the way he talks that feels too genuine and Woojin wants to forgive him and that’s not how this works. Not how this _should_ work. Woojin liked Jihoon a lot before, liked Jihoon _too much_ before. And then there was _that_ and that was the most terrifying moment of their usual comfortable relationship and Woojin didn’t know how to respond.

Then Jihoon vanished. Now he’s suddenly back. It’s too easy to fall back into their rhythm, and Woojin is terrified because Jihoon is definitely leaving again.

There’s too much heat. Heat from the way Jihoon looks with concern, heat from his headache, heat from the coffee, heat when it goes down his throat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You’re not eating more?” Jihoon asks, turning the menu over in the palms of his hands.

“Had coffee,” Woojin shrugs, adjusting the way he’s seating so he can rest his feet on the metal footrest at the bottom of the stall. The strong smell and smoke from when spice meets hot metal come up towards them. He fans it away.

“That was three hours ago,” Jihoon says.

“That’s not that far away. I’ve had worse. Besides, I still have cookies.”

“That’s not enough for-“

“No need to push it,” Woojin says. The chef is paying little attention to their squabble. Vegetables are fried on the grill, giving off bellows of steam.

Jihoon shakes his head and places their order in between rounds of the chef chatting with the other people at the workstation.

“You look like shit today,” Jihoon says. “Did something come up?”

“Work.” Woojin says. “You were there for most of it, yes?”

Jihoon nods. “I know a bad night when I see one.” “Glad to see the coffee helped, if only for a little while.”

Woojin swirls his tea in his cup. “I hate coffee,” Woojin says. “Also hate kancho crackers, but that doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for them if they’re there. So thanks.”

“Sure,” Jihoon says, laughing. “Says the one who always had a box every day.”

“I always had them cause you liked them.” Woojin shrugs. “They’re okay. A little worse nowadays than I remember.”

Jihoon’s stuck, because that’s not what he remembers. He only had a piece whenever they’d split it, right? And they didn’t split it every day. But when he pulls the images from his head he realizes that that’s wrong, too, and now he’s not sure he can believe what he remembers from before.

The marinated beef sizzles when it hits the grill. Flames rise and lap around the edges. Jihoon takes a shallow breath.

“They’ve really gone downhill,” Jihoon says.

“They have.” Woojin opens a bottle Jihoon didn’t realize was there, and a packet of cookies. “Want some?” He slides Jihoon the silvery plastic packet.

“No thanks.”

Woojin leaves it there anyways, so Jihoon takes it.

“It sucks more now, but does it matter if you still like it? Most everything does around here nowadays, product of the times. So I could see why everyone keeps leaving,” Woojin says.

Woojin sighs again and turns to look at him. “I’m glad you got out of here. You still look good. How’s life?”

Life is-

Life’s okay. Jihoon tells Woojin about the birds and the bees, how they absolutely terrorize everyone at his university, tells him about Daehwi and Jinyoung and how he’d known them separately at first but now that they’ve formed their trio the two are even closer than ever and now Jihoon feels a little lost sometimes. Jihoon likes the way Woojin listens, quiet hums and intent gaze, even when they both get distracted by their food when it comes out. Jihoon’s nowhere near that good of a listener naturally, so he tries even harder when he asks Woojin questions back. Woojin has a habit of rambling, talking about unrelated things, but for some reason Jihoon doesn’t pick up much about Woojin himself, how’s _he_ doing?

The farm? Sold it, I don’t know what’s there now, probably the housing complexes. Family? My aunt’s in Gangneung. How’s your sister? Uncooperatively vague. But when Jihoon asks places, other things- The old cafe? Closed, became an art gallery, was free on Monday nights, cool sculptures, _spiraling wood towers_ , Woojin explains enthusiastically, _you should go if you have the time_. Woojin’s old friend’s family’s restaurant? Still running, did you know he sends let… He pauses. The chicken’s still great. Beside it there’s a souvenir store that opened three years ago, they have cool guitars at the back you can play if you ask the owner. And make sure to-

Jihoon wonders what’s going on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jihoon pays a lot of attention, too much actually. Even when his phone buzzes incessantly, he doesn’t pick it up. He doesn’t even notice. Woojin wishes he would, because it’s hard. Talking is hard.

Woojin prefers watching Jihoon instead. The fluid way he moves, the way his hair sticks up in odd angles from underneath his hat, the bright gleam in his eyes when he talks about what he’s doing. He seems exceptionally excited when he talks about his friends- Daehwi and Jinyoung? The lab, too. Woojin’s surprised he’s done so much, but to be frank it’s truly been a while since they’ve seen each other. He would love to say it’s mostly Jihoon’s fault, but Woojin doesn’t consider himself to be blameless either. Not by a long shot. It takes two to talk, but it two for nothing on both sides.

What Woojin doesn’t like as much, however, is how Jihoon bounces it back at him. What are you up to? Your family? You wanted to be an astronomer, right? How’s it going?

Woojin is grateful how often Jihoon lets him turn the conversation back to a less loaded nothing, back to _places_ and _things_. Woojin even loses him sometimes. But he looks at Woojin curiously, gently, even, _why?_ when Woojin struggles to pull the fake confidence, when Woojin trips up and almost lets himself _talk_. So Jihoon’s definitely noticed. But Jihoon doesn’t ask.

Woojin doesn’t like these questions because they feel too real. Like Woojin hasn’t been stuck in the same place since five years ago. Like he’s good enough at anything to become anyone worth putting a name, a label to. He knows this. His parents know this. His sister knows this, which is why she’s given up on him, too. Jihoon, on the other hand, is moving forwards in a fast arc, all sparks and electricity, too far ahead for Woojin to ever hope himself to catch up to.

 

 

 

 

 

Woojin’s phone rings halfway through dinner. He stiffens when he picks it up.

 

“I have to leave. Sorry, Jihoon, see you. I’ll pay later, I promise.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

It takes fifteen minutes to get home. Woojin’s father is angry, but this only the usual. It’s exhausting, but it’s the usual. Woojin isn’t surprised.

 

“I didn’t spend all that money to raise a leech. You don’t paid rent, don’t pay food, and you’re not going anywhere in life. Do you expect to mooch off the good of society like a parasite?”

Woojin’s heard this conversation fifty times and counting yet every time he just gets as riled up. He looks to his mother in the corner to get some support. She locks eyes with him, gaze worried, but she doesn’t move. She looks back down at the stack of monthly periodicals in front of her on the dining table, and Woojin doesn’t even feel betrayed anymore, just dull and cold.

Still the usual.

“Do you even know how much money I put into your little night classes? And you skip to get drunk with some idiot again. A useless dropout like you-“

Woojin squares off. “That’s not his f-“

“Get out of my house.”

No. Why should I? I live here too, Woojin wants to say. He doesn’t. He can’t.

“You won’t even let me expla-“

The door slams.

 

 

 

 

 

 

His voice is hoarse when Jihoon picks up his call.

“I’m bringing real drinks this time.” Woojin laughs. It sounds more like a croak. “What do you want?”

The disapproving gaze of his sister sits heavy at the back of his mind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Woojin drives a little too aggressively past tight corners, packed roundabouts. A freight truck honks at him when he cuts it off on the exit, probably too close to the front for the poor man’s comfort.

Woojin has dreams. He’ll inherit the house. He won’t squander their money. He’ll take care of his mom and she’ll finally smile more often and he’ll fall in love with astronomy again, take his night classes and he _won_ ’ _t_ fail. He’ll do well, get a good job and his sister will look at them and look at how happy they are and then she’ll want to come home and they’ll all stay together like a happy family.

Right?

The clouds cover the night sky. That’s fine, because he hates the stars. Maybe he should find something else to study, look for another path, anything. He’s too much of a disappointment to himself like this. He’s seen the way his mother glances at him sometimes, noticed the terseness in his sister’s responses when he calls. The fact that the two of his closest friends moved away to god-knows-where before this- this _downturn_ is a blessing in disguise. But Jihoon’s back now, and now he’s here to watch Woojin life splattered out over the rocks.

He can hope the distance between them does a good enough job of hiding it. But he sees the questions in Jihoon’s eyes.

He swallows.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Woojin walks straight to the guest chair when he enters the room.

“I swear you look even rougher every time I see you,” Jihoon jokes. “Should stop meeting each other? Maybe it’ll help a bit.”

“No kidding.” Woojin lays the paper bag on the table.

Jihoon hums because he doesn’t know what response Woojin actually expects.

“Don’t take that seriously. I’m joking. Drink with me?”

Jihoon hums again. He sits onto his white sheets. They crumple in his hands. As he watches Woojin unwrap one of the clear plastic cups on the table, he realizes he still doesn’t know what response Woojin actually expects. So he settles for a “so what do you want”.

“Anything’s fine. Got what you asked for.”

There’s five bottles of flavored soju and a single container of makgeolli on the right and Jihoon almost laughs at what “anything” means. Jihoon gets up off the bed and gets the extra blankets on top of the closet by the entrance door. Exceedingly warm heavy grey cotton sits on his hands. He tosses it at Woojin. His hands are already hot even though he was only holding it for a few seconds.

When Jihoon watches Woojin, he notices that Woojin is prone to shivering. It’s subtle. Woojin catches the makgeolli when the blanket nearly knocks it off the table.

Woojin stares at the blanket on his lap. “What’s this for?”

Jihoon looks at him with a playful smile. “You’re pretty vague about what you want, you know? I don’t know what _anything_ means. We could have a staring session all evening. I could keep asking you uncomfortable questions about yourself while you keep deflecting.” _Like earlier_. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Thanks for not asking,” Woojin twists the metal cap of the peach soju open.

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to, but I have some respect,” Jihoon says.

Woojin smiles at him. “Thanks for not asking.” His teeth show and his eyes crinkle and it looks unabashedly genuine, which makes it all the more unnerving because Jihoon knows Woojin was originally never any good at lying. Jihoon wraps his own blanket across his shoulders and moves to sit across the table from Woojin.

“Don’t look at me like _that_ ,” Woojin says when Jihoon slides into the teal wood chair across him. Jihoon sighs and lets Woojin pours him a cup.

Jihoon sighs and leans forward on the table. He takes a drink from the cup.

“This place is pretty different,” Jihoon finally offers. It tastes strongly of a lot of things. Sweetness, sharpness, bitterness, courage. Not much like peaches, though. He licks his lips, rolls the taste around on his tongue. “You’re different, too. A little.” He hopes that’s enough to quell whatever this heat gurgling in his chest is. It isn’t. There’s the alcohol, too. He has a feeling it won’t help much.

“A little?”

“A little.” It’s probably enough to leave it at that. He’s not sure even he can expand much more.

“Hmm.”

If Woojin isn’t convinced, he lets it rest, and instead moves to grab a familiar brown scarf out of the plastic bag that had the soju bottles. “I should probably give you this back, shouldn’t I?”

Jihoon is relieved.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They move on from flavor to flavor. Peach, citron, pomegranate. Only plain and grape remain. Jihoon insists that they take a break with the makgeolli before they move on any further, and takes the opportunity to turn _a break_ into _let’s stop_.

Jihoon lands on the bed, tugs Woojin along with him on the half-meter there. Woojin hesitates, but lets Jihoon drag him along anyway.

And that could’ve been it. They lie on the opposite sides of the bed. Woojin’s not hard to convince out of sleeping on the upright chairs, but the small space between them feels like a chasm. Jihoon watches the shadows of the lights dance on the ceiling. Woojin is turned away from him, facing towards the guest seats. There’s still fire coursing in Jihoon’s veins.

“Why didn’t you ever text me?” Jihoon asks.

“ _You_ didn’t either.”

Woojin doesn’t respond.

“I liked you, you know?” Jihoon says.

Woojin shakes his head, bed sheets rustling with the movement. “Of course you did.”

“I kissed you.”

“I know. Is that why?”

Jihoon laughs, his cheeks feeling too heated and, god, he feels simultaneously like shit and uncomfortably blissful at the same time. He rarely drinks more than half a bottle out with his friends. “No shit. I was too scared to do anything about it though.”

Woojin grows quiet and reaches over to turn the light back on. Woojin’s eyes are on him again, and that familiar pang in his gut is coursing. There’s questions that were left hanging between them, and now it’s being dredged back up. Maybe it’s only right to settle it once and for all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jihoon’s lips hover over Woojin’s before they press together in a silent kiss. Jihoon feels more than hears the sharp intake of Woojin’s breath, the way he freezes.

He half expects Woojin to push him away again. If anything, he actually wants Woojin to push him away. Confirm what Jihoon had thought long ago. Bring some sort of closure that they so desperately need.

Jihoon parts his lips hesitatingly and pulls back, closing his eyes, dropping his hands from their grip on Woojin’s shirt to down against his own sides. Woojin’s right hand comes to a loose grip on Jihoon’s left wrist. When they part, Jihoon knows he has to pull away.

But Woojin’s grip tightens. He leans into Jihoon. His breath is hot against Jihoon’s neck. And Jihoon doesn’t know what it means. Jihoon clenches his fists, doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. He glances up. In the dim light, he sees Woojin stare at him expectantly, gaze unyielding. Jihoon lets his hands limp and licks his lips, looking down.

The taste of peaches and soju lingers in his mouth, sweet and bitter. Jihoon wonders if this is how kissing Woojin will always taste like.

“Hey,” Woojin interrupts. “What are we doing?”

He looks back up. Woojin’s grip is looser now and his gaze softer. Jihoon knows he shouldn’t let it get to him, but the words slip past his lips before he can stop them.

“Tying up some loose ends,” Jihoon replies.

Woojin laughs, breathy, strained. “Should I not expect to see you again for seven years?” He releases his grip on Jihoon’s wrist when Jihoon doesn’t respond. “Good night, Jihoon.”

The sweet taste of fruit weighs like lead on Jihoon’s tongue.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _Closure_ isn’t really the right word for what Jihoon accomplishes. Woojin forces him to remember the lingering summer memories. Rejection and regret lingering in the kiss when Jihoon moved away.

The memories come back in waves, sending Jihoon reeling amongst photographs, snapshots of _what was, what could have been_. A chill rushes hard to Jihoon’s stomach. The empty contents of his stomach threaten to hurl.

The blankets are bunched against Jihoon’s waist. Woojin shivers in his sleep.

Jihoon tugs up the white sheets over Woojin’s shoulders. He wants to lace his hands with Woojin’s. Woojin’s arm is wrapped around his ribs.

But it is not his place.

So Jihoon shifts farther and pushes himself away from Woojin’s side.

He feels cold, even with the blankets around him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Woojin’s blanket lies in a bunched mess on the floor, gray contrasted with fallen white sheets.

Woojin stands on the opposite side of the room, standing by the sink. He pulls off the look of _yesterday’s clothes_ well. Jihoon watches his reflection on the mirror.

“So early?”

Woojin stops.

He meets Jihoon’s eyes on the mirror and swiftly turns his gaze to the side. “I usually wake up early,” he says. “For work. You want coffee too?” He steps towards the coffee maker, sitting on the far right of the sink counter. The coffee scent only floods the room after he loads the machine.

Jihoon pointedly watches Woojin’s figure. _Tap_.

 _Scratch_.

For the most part, Woojin is quiet when he moves. Jihoon watches for a few more seconds before relenting to the strong scent of coffee, and turns back to the window.

“It’s still snowing.” Jihoon’s voice cracks in the middle.

“Need something for your headache?” Woojin asks.

“No, I’m good, I-“

Jihoon’s not sure what to do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Since half an hour ago Jihoon’s been staring at the ceiling. Is that comfortable?

No, it wouldn’t be. Woojin glances at Jihoon’s reflection. Tufts of orange hair stick up like sprouts along the white and grey fur-cotton garden of the sheets.

Woojin looks at the bottom corner of the mirror. Woojin is afraid that he _has_ slipped so far down that even a complete stranger could come in like a whirlwind into Woojin’s life and see just how far his life has gone down the metaphorical shitter.

The buzzing of Jihoon’s phone disturbs the silence. Jihoon turns slowly to reach out for his phone, heavily bogged down by white sheets.

But soon after he picks it up, Jihoon zips past Woojin and into the bathroom, door shutting with a loud thud. He moves in a trance, eyes don't even move from his path to the door. And the morning is no longer quiet. And when Jihoon walks back out the door not much later, his eyes are bloodshot and his breathing a little erratic. Woojin is terrified. Because this is Jihoon. Soft and winding and it's also _Jihoon_ , the prideful, confident student from Seoul and this sight is _wrong_. Woojin swallows. "You okay?"

Jihoon catches Woojin staring at him and smiles. The silence hangs.

“Do you think you’ll be drinking that coffee?” Jihoon asks.

A million questions run through Woojin's head, especially at Jihoon’s gaze, lost in the distance.

Woojin swallows the lump in his throat. "I hate coffee anyways." He turns to the mirror. You want anything with that? I can make something.” He tosses a glance back at the right.

Jihoon follows Woojin’s eyes and nods. “That’d be great.”

 

 

Jihoon finally talks again when he’s halfway through the coffee, more bitter than usual.

“Can I stay at your place for a few days?”

Woojin‘s thoughts flick back to a loudness, remembers how the box at the front of the door and how the wooden hinge finally gave out and fell down.

"Sorry," he says. “I don’t think I’m allowed back at the moment.”

Jihoon mumbles. “Makes two of us.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jihoon bounces around the phone in his hands, his steps quaking as he paces back and forth. Eventually, Jihoon stops and sets his foot on the black corner square on the floor.

He sets up the call. Sets up the story.

"Dad?"

Jihoon's heart pounds the entire time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Woojin pats circles onto his arch of his back as he sits crouching on the floor, chest pressed against white porcelain and water too close to his face for his liking.

"Stop drinking so much," Woojin says. "You're a lightweight.”

"I only drink when I'm sad," Jihoon protests, heaving once again as he leans forward. "That's not often."

"That’s doesn’t sound good for you."

"Speak for yourself," Jihoon says. The lurch in his stomach feels like butterflies, threatening to spill out of his esophagus in droves, scattering like black pitch into the room. His vision quakes when he leans back, so he lunges back forward to regain his balance.

“Steady, there," Woojin's hands grip at his waist when he leans too far front. "I can handle myself. It’s fine.”

“Really,” Jihoon says, and he lets the waves take him away into the distance, sunset flitting in the horizon of his thoughts and reality. "You're not as fine as you think you are, you know?" Woojin feels warm beside him.

"You know, you're a lot looser when you're drunk, Jihoon," Woojin deflects, and continues to pat circles onto Jihoon's back. "Open up without the alcohol sometime, hmm?" Woojin laughs and something about it is off, Jihoon thinks, but maybe it's something that he shouldn’t touch, fix.

"Same to you."     

Woojin stills, but goes back to patting his back.

Their relationship is warm, yet there’s definitely something about it makes Jihoon feels like they’re both using it as a temporary out. There's a lot that’s private, and they probably both know that spilling anything could break the illusion. But in the end, Jihoon guesses he doesn’t really have that much to lose.

He adjusts his position so that he's sitting cross-legged onto the black and white tile, cold as expected. But he leans into the hand pressed into his back, leans into the warmth pressed against his side.

 

 

 

 

 

Jihoon fidgets when they stand at the front of his father's house's door.

"Calm down," Woojin clicks, grip slightly tightening on the grey wool of Jihoon's trench coat. The wool of the coat bunches too far up, letting the wind blow in through the gap between the buttons. Jihoon shrugs off Woojin's hand and shakes the coat back down.

"Wow, thanks to your words, I’ve suddenly stopped being nervous," he says, breath rising up as steam. “Not helpful.”

"I can't help it," Woojin says, stepping from out in the sun to the shade under the porch. He shakes in his boots, probably actually from the cold this time, and Jihoon knocks into him awkwardly from this angle as they wait in silence for his someone to open the door. Jihoon can't take the wreck of emotions stewing in his chest. His pulse pounds steadily, resounding throughout his entire body.

“Hey," Jihoon nudges Woojin towards the front. Woojin staggers. "Help me."

The doorbell rings again when Woojin presses it a second time. Jihoon lets him step forward and he himself steps back. the green windproof material of Woojin's jacket stands stark to the surface of the cement, painted over with white flakes.

Woojin shoots him an exasperated glance when the door opens to Jihoon’s dad, but continues to talk anyway. Jihoon is thankful.

 

 

 

 

 

The realization hits him gradually.

His dad’s new family- his wife, their black lab, even their daughter, Haein- they’re all nice to Jihoon, the most welcoming, sometimes edging on a little too much, even. It feels so close-knit, so much so that he feels like he’s being a intruder, coming here and forcefully barging into their lives.

But Woojin helps him ease along. He even gets integrated into the family, arguably even faster than Jihoon. Right now, as Jihoon watches the way his eyes light up when he talks to Jihoon’s dad during family dinner, he’s not sure if what he feels is pride or thankfulness. Woojin’s hands are firmly hidden behind the cloth of the table cover.

"Would either of you like anything to drink?"

The flowing streaks of the wine glisten in a clear glass. Jihoon glances at Woojin, who laughs. "No, thank you. Maybe next Christmas?"

Curiosity lines the words on the tip of Jihoon’s tongue. But then he sees the way Woojin's eyes go from _unsure_ to _bright_ , like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders, and Jihoon doesn’t say a word. So he takes it as a simple, innocent response, and drinks down the glass he had been offered instead.

Jihoon watches the way Woojin seems to relax after that, the way he acts like he's gotten rid of a snake latched on to his ankle after so long. Now he’s two steps forward to Jihoon's half. But there’s inspiration in it, and it makes Jihoon want to keep moving forward.

The smile in Jihoon’s eyes is a little more genuine for the rest of the dinner, and though his responses are still a bit stiff, it’s something he tries his hardest to smooth. When he remembers the call and the loud disapproval in his mother’s voice, it’s heavy, a brass weight in his hand. But at the same time, it’s also shaped like a key, meant to open locked doors.

Jihoon breathes easy for the first time since he’s been back. And it- it feels nice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Snow's coming down pretty hard, huh?" Woojin asks, wrapping the food leftovers in a clear plastic film and stuffing the white cutlery-scratched ceramic in the fridge.

"Yeah it is," Jihoon nods, looking at the white gusts streaming outside the window. The real sharp edge of the wood corner sill shakes against the vibrations from outside. "But it’s not like I’m planning to outside right now, even if I could,” he says. “Is your car going to be okay?"

"How about you think about your car first?" Woojin says, laughing.

"My car's a lost cause anyway," Jihoon sighs, leaning his head back after plopping on the couch. The rustling of water from the kitchen sink has turned off now. The only thing replacing it is silence.

"I feel bad about eating all of your family's food," Woojin says.

"Not mine-" Jihoon points out. "My dad's. And yeah, so do I. But we helped out a lot, so maybe it'll be fine? The spirit of giving and all," Jihoon grins. In reality, he just feels tired. The only thing he wants to do is to grab the spare blankets atop the guest bed and wrap himself up, curl into a cocoon and never leave.

He feels more than sees Woojin sit next to him on the cool leather, the weight pushing down the cushions next to him. he lets blackness embroider his vision, letting him notice his breathing even, slow, steady. It works, for the most part.

Woojin's voice trickles through the silence. There's a light pressure on Jihoon's shoulder hesitating before it's gone, pulled away. Jihoon opens his eyes to Woojin being a little too close to him on the copper-colored leather, their arms almost touching.

"What," Jihoon winces at how croaky his voice comes out.

"That went, well, huh?"

"I'm trying my best to open up." Jihoon sighs and slides forward on the couch. “Without the alcohol. I mean. There was still alcohol, but- How’d I do?”

"You sounded like a robot sometimes," Woojin laughs. “But it's getting there.”

"Fake it till you make it," Jihoon affirms, lazily nodding, humming and closing his eyes again. He grabs a spare blanket hanging off of the couch. The fleece hugs his arm, warm as can be. He offers a corner of the it to Woojin.

"I don’t need it, but thanks," Woojin says, and takes the corner offered to him anyways. The distance between them narrows as they try to split the blanket evenly. It doesn’t turn out too well in Woojin’s favor; Jihoon ends up hogging about three quarters of it.

"Have you called home?" Woojin asks.

The answer is that he won’t, but Jihoon doesn’t want to answer that question definitively yet. "Have _you_ called?" Jihoon asks back.

Woojin hesitates. "I'm not going to."

"Where else would you go?” Jihoon says.

“My aunt's? I don't know, maybe she- she offered once, a few months ago. It wasn't that bad then," Woojin replies, repeatedly running his thumb over his knuckles.

"It’s bad now, though," Jihoon points out, pulling the blanket up over most of his face. “Why don’t you try it out. It might go well.”

Woojin laughs. “You’re being so optimistic,” Woojin glances over at him and lifts the back of the blanket over Jihoon’s head, faded orange matching with Jihoon's messy locks. "I've been a beacon of luck this winter, am I right?" He leans into Jihoon's arm and briefly slings an arm over his shoulder. "Maybe next time I’ll see if can get some hail to come with the blizzard too."

The next half hour goes okay, though that might actually be an underestimation. By the end of the evening, Jihoon finds himself relaxing, being too close to Woojin than he usually is with anyone. And it feels comfortable, too, when he unconsciously leans into their shared touches.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I'm going to call my mom," Jihoon says.

Woojin shifts off the edge of the bed, removing the excess blankets from himself. The room is hot, that even Jihoon can admit that he doesn't need more than a thin layer of sheets at best.

"Isn't it a little late for that?" Woojin asks.

Jihoon stops and handles the sheets, quickly folding them into vaguely rectangular shapes. "Weren't you the one who told me it's never too late to try?"

Woojin stares. "I mean the time. It's past midnight, won't you bother her?"

"She's always awake this hour," Jihoon shrugs. "Her work makes her sleeping pretty erratic. But that's exactly it. It won't bother her. Do you mind the noise?" Jihoon asks. He licks his lips.

"I'm awake anyways."

"But you might not be soon." Jihoon points out.

"I can wait a few." Woojin shrugs.

Jihoon eyes him with intrigue before smiling and nodding. "Alright. Sounds good. I'll be back."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seeing himself in a mirror in front of a sink is starting to become a familiar sight, Jihoon thinks. But this one’s a little different. Less cracked linoleum, less antiseptic smell. No bleach stains on the corners of the shower curtains, and there’s a row of three lights above the sink. A mix of cool white and warm yellow light floods the room.

He’s surprised when his mom actually picks up the phone so fast, only on the third ring. “Hi mom, this is-“

His mom cuts him off and begins to talk incessantly. About the weather, how the roads are, if he’s okay in the blizzard and has he found a place to stay at instead of trying to navigate through a curtain of white-

Jihoon swallows. “Mom. I’m still in Busan.”

Jihoon braces himself for the incoming disappointment, but it never comes. “I see. How is that friend of yours doing?

Blankets and warmth and good food and good company come to mind. Jihoon summarizes the story into a few sentences for brevity but something else makes him say “I’m glad we’re getting along really well,” at the end.

"That sounds like an unfortunate situation. Good to know he’s doing well. Maybe you can let him visit the house sometimes.”

Visit the house? Jihoon bites his lip and forces a smile to quell his nervousness. Jihoon didn’t even know he was allowed back.

“I apologize for what I said before. I wasn’t mad, just disappointed.” She pauses. “You decide your own life. You can meet your dad if you want to.

Jihoon breathes.

“-And I feel bad about letting this lead to not getting to spend Christmas with you. I just wanted to let know you can come home for the rest of break if you want to.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Their phone conversation lasts a good bit longer than he thought. When he comes back to the room through dark hallways, the light is turned off, the only thing buzzing on the small bedside lamp. Woojin is half asleep, but wakes up halfway through Jihoon trying to move to the bed from the door.

"You look awake," Jihoon hums. The brown threads of hair on Woojin's head are creatively nonplussed, and the sleepy expression on his face as he struggles to stay awake, or at least try to make himself wake up, is adorable.

"I tried," Woojin yawns. "How about you, it went well? You look good," he says. He shifts so that the blankets on the floor are no longer in the way of the pathways between the couch and the bed.

"I guess so." Jihoon smiles to himself.

"That's good," Woojin says, patting the bed. "Now it's late, go to sleep." He sits back down.

"No."

"What?"

"You thought we were done playing catch-up? No. We're talking. sit, " Jihoon says. The comfy white sheets press down where Jihoon sits on it and he aggressively pats the empty space beside him.

Woojin yawns and sits on the bed, immediately lying down on his side. “I’ll try. But I can’t keep any promises that I can stay awake.”

Jihoon lays down on his back beside him. “That’s fine. I can just talk anyways.” The silence is comfy. He rests his hands on his stomach, steadily observing the outlines of changing colored lights reflected on the ceiling by the ones hanging on the corner.

 

“What am I, a wall?” Woojin scoffs and turns to face him, a light smile playing on his lips.

Jihoon turns his head to look at him, takes a moment to stare before he can’t suppress his grin anymore and returns one in kind. Being like this feels so relaxing. Jihoon finds himself melting back into the flow of _here_ , his childhood and his hometown and he doesn’t feel out of place anymore.

“Yep,” Jihoon says, lifting the end of the word. “A nice one.” He turns back to the ceiling. “I could see why I liked you so much.”

Jihoon lets the words sit. He does, now, too, quite a little, but he doesn’t know if it’s the same kind of fondness. It’s hard to classify.

“Try not to let that get in the way of talking to me next time?”

“Sorry.”

“Guess I know what to do the next time I want you not to talk to me,” Woojin jokes.

It makes Jihoon choke. Jihoon raises his hands and puts them over his face. “God, don’t remind me of that. It’s embarrassing.”

“it’s already been over two days and you aren’t gone yet, so that’s an improvement,” Woojin chuckles. “Don’t ditch me this time, thanks.”

“I’m not going to, don’t worry.“ Jihoon lets the words stew in the air a bit, trying to soothe a nagging feeling in his mind. For more reasons than he’s wanted to ever deal with, it’s been a long week. But one thing about it is that it feels like they’ve bridged that swirling void between them that was there when they first met again. Like mutually fixing a broken drawbridge. It’s bliss. Jihoon smiles.

 

 

 

 

“Ready to go?”

Woojin gives him a thumbs up and slides casually into the passenger seat of Jihoon’s car after throwing a backpack in the back.

“I can’t believe you’re actually returning the car,” Jihoon says.

“My mom will get more use out of it,” Woojin shrugs, looking away. “I gave her the keys.”

“Did something happen?” Jihoon asks, looking at the folded yellow paper sticking out of Woojin’s bag.

“My mom.” Woojin breathes heavy from where he’s leaning against the window. It fogs on the glass. “She caught me leaving. We- we made up, I guess.” He turns to look outside, tight grip on his wrist. “I hope she stays fine.”

“She will.”

Woojin deeply exhales and lets go of his own wrist where he was tightly gripping, wrist red from the pressure. “You’re right.”

“Should we get going?” Jihoon starts the car.

“Okay. Ready when you are.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The bright sunlight scatters peacefully over the now-melting piles of snow. Jihoon tugs Woojin’s wrist forwards.

The slush under Jihoon’s boots crunches when he stops. He pulls his scarf off, wraps it over Woojin’s shoulders.

 

The red and gold of the soft knit fabric contrasts against the pine green of Woojin’s jacket.  The last of the snowflakes that were littered on it continue to melt away. Jihoon smiles at the end result. “Now you can keep warm, even on shitty cold winter nights. Merry Christmas?” Jihoon relishes in the tone of the surprised laugh Woojin gives.

“You’re giving it back to me now when I just finally remembered to return it?” Woojin replies. “Take it, you’ll need it driving back, won’t you? It’s cold in the car, and I’m always warm anyways.” Woojin’s eyes crinkle in soft amusement.

Jihoon lightly smacks him on the forehead. “No, why should I? You’ve used it more than I ever have, anyway.” Jihoon adjusts the scarf bundled around Woojin’s collar, stepping forwards. “Woojin,” he says, more quietly. “I’m worried about you.” He pulls Woojin into a hug. He presses their cheeks together instead. The flush of heat pressed against the cold of their skin is comforting. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

Jihoon tightens his grip on Woojin’s jacket. Woojin initially stiffens in his grasp, but then he’s okay again and returning the hug.

Woojin exhales. “Yeah.” He pulls Jihoon so tight Jihoon thinks he’ll end up combusting just like the fireworks in his chest.

“Thank you. Really.” The soft cologne smell of Woojin’s hair mixes with the cinnamon bun smell entwined in Jihoon’s scarf from when they ate this morning. Fondness and budding pride swells in Jihoon’s chest. Maybe something more.

 

Jihoon pats him on the back and they part. For some reason, Jihoon finds it comfortable to let go this time. “I hope the rest of your winter break goes as well as the first half?” he jokes.

“ _Hey_ ,” Woojin smacks him on the arm. “Don’t remind me so soon. You’ll jinx it already.”

The hiss of bus tires catches both of their attentions.

“Well, I have to go now.”

“You do.” Jihoon shifts so there’s a normal, comfortable distance between them. “I-“

“Will I be seeing you again?” Woojin interrupts, question vulnerable and all too eager. A puff of air solidifies into steam as he breathes out. His gaze flickers back to the bus when it hisses again before resting back onto Jihoon. Jihoon can see the driver begin to let people board.

He smiles. “You already have my number, right? Now go, you’re going to miss your bus.”

 

 

 

This time, they both make sure this goodbye comes only with fulfilled promises.

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: since busan is so far south, it's not as cold and it only snows there ~5 days in the winter!!! also, busan is a very big city


End file.
